Chester King had it made. He liked to think of himself as the only person in the world who made it and kept it during the years going into the eighties, the years when the real estate world was the place to be. It was all about timing. Chester thought he was lucky: he was one of those people who have an instinct, a kind of sixth sense about things, and he had liquidated his carefully selected real estate investments just before the peak, just before the crash, just before all the bankers went to jail. As for Chester, he traveled a little, and finally moved to Pearland about a year ago and settled in for a long retirement.
Fit and fifty. That’s what he was. And rich. And single. But Chester was careful too. He didn’t give away his money and he avoided getting involved with women, who might begin to think of his money as their own. Nope, that wouldn’t do. Instead, every two weeks, Chester went to Hobby Airport and took a flight up to Tulsa, where he visited a woman named Mary Kay Pollard for the weekend, leaving a small cash donation on her kitchen table before returning home Monday morning. Mary Kay appreciated Chester and she appreciated the gift, but she didn’t know Chester was a rich man. There was no need for her to know about that. She thought he hailed from Cedar Rapids and sold machine tools—or something boring and industrial like that.
Chester did give away his time, however. He had plenty of that too, and nobody could take it away from him. Twice a week he volunteered at the hospital reception desk. At the end of the summer Chester let his beard grow, and come Thanksgiving he signed up to be a volunteer Santa up at Pearland Mall.
That’s how Chester met Bonnie. Sassy Bonnie Whitaker. Bonnie Whitaker with the high wide breasts and curly red hair and a bottom that seemed to keep moving for two or three seconds after she’d stopped walking.
Chester noticed her waiting in line, but he couldn’t figure out which kid was with her. He did notice that all the moms in the line kept looking at her, the way women with scurrying kids, blocky running shoes, striped sweat pants and Toyota 4Runners sometimes look at younger women with carefree hair, strappy sandals, sassy nipples and no panty line. Not even token clairvoyance was needed to pick up the susurrations: envy and disapproval rippled through the waiting area.
Chester had a different reaction. All of a sudden he had a hard time focusing on his job. He stopped paying attention to what the kids told him. He forgot to do the Santa laugh. His eyes kept returning to that flame of hair, those breasts that seemed meant for head-cradling, the flare of those low-slung Levis around her hips, that little band of flesh just above them.
By the time she got to the head of the line, Chester was feeling uncomfortably stiff inside his Santa trousers. Actually, stiff was an understatement. He had a stinging hard-on—very un-Santa-like, and a big surprise to Chester. She just stood there watching him, a little smile curling her lips as if she knew what she was doing to him. There was no kid with her. What was she up to?
She answered, as if she could read his mind. “I’m looking for the real one,” she said, settling on Chester’s lap, her thigh crushing up against his stiffie. “Are you the real Santa?”
Revolt didn’t seem to be far away. Now there was a sea of frowning mothers in front of Chester. Many of them had grabbed their children’s hands, as if preparing to snatch them away from some looming danger. If God had equipped women with audible alarms, bells would have been ringing throughout the mall.
“Of course I am,” said Chester, trying to get the boom back into his voice. “Now what would you like for Christmas, my dear?” There had to be a way to get through this without causing some kind of riot. Play along, and it’ll end pretty soon. That’s what he thought. But somehow she slid a little higher in his lap, making fuller contact with what would have convinced anybody he wasn’t the genuine Santa.
She had that little flickering smile going again and her bright green eyes focused on Chester. “Oh, I don’t want anything for myself,” she said. “I just want to thank Santa. I want to let him know that I appreciate how well he took care of me when I was a little girl. Are you the real one? Your beard is real, you have blue eyes, so are you the real one?” She wiggled a little, a sort of squirm that probably looked like disingenuous innocence to all the moms out there, and Chester knew they would be right. This girl’s hip was right up against the tip of his dick and she had to feel the pressure from it. “My name’s Bonnie,” she said looking at him with those glowing green eyes. “Bonnie Whitaker. But you already knew my name, didn’t you, Santa?”
Did she just wink? Sure looked like it, but it was real quick. Chester couldn’t be sure. “Ah, yes… Bonnie. And, uh, what was it you said you wanted for Christmas?”
“I just want to find the real one,” she said. “And you might be my guy. But I’ll bet if you are Santa, you won’t admit it, right?”
“I—”
“I may be back!” she said, jumping off his lap. “By-eeee!” And zip, she was gone, oblivious to the malevolent mother-stares directed at her world-class, hiney-twitching, eye-crossing walk.
Chester watched, too. He licked his lips and caught his breath. The next kid was already steaming toward him.
* * * *
Chester liked women as much as the next man. The trouble was he didn’t think he’d ever find the one he would want to spend the rest of his life with. Sure, his visits with Mary Kay up in Oklahoma were nice, but there was no real connection. They had fun with each other, did a lot of thrusting and throbbing, talked a little—and that was that. He just never would find the woman who could rob him of all reason and common sense, the way it seemed to happen with other men.
Chester took some pride in this, but it still bothered him and he admitted it. It would be nice to have somebody to talk with in the evenings, to share the kitchen with. It would be nice to have somebody to make the house smell like a woman lived there, the way Mary Kay’s did, somebody to brighten the mornings with a quick laugh.
Chester knew about women, but they were still a mystery to him. What would it be like to wake up beside the same woman for ten years, twenty years, thirty years? What would it be like to see a woman’s things—brushes, combs, hairspray, lipstick—on the countertop in the bathroom? What would it be like to take a shower right after she had? What would it be like to be able to reach out and find the warm spot on the bed just after she gets up? What would it be like to see her panties in the laundry hamper, tangled with his boxers?
Chester wanted to know these things. And something had happened during those moments this young woman named Bonnie had been sitting on his lap. Thoughts had come into Chester’s mind, floating up, nudging. Could he really see her smiling at him across the breakfast table for dozens of years to come, or was his mind just goofy? The images were like a too-real dream in those moments right after it wakes you up. But of course he wouldn’t be seeing her across the breakfast table. That was just wishful thinking: his imagination playing unkind games with him.
Besides, she couldn’t be even half his age.
* * * *
Chester stood beside his bed in the dark, pulling his pajama bottoms away from his crotch. It was wet and sticky in there, and the unmistakable scent of semen filtered into his nostrils. This hadn’t happened in years. Chester wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he’d had a wet dream.
But he sure remembered this one. It replayed in his mind as he stepped out of the pajamas and wiped his still-thick penis with them. The dream was as vivid as it had been when it was just a dream, before it became a memory. He could still see her, that Bonnie, rising above him, her high wide breasts capped by tiny bright pink buttons, her fluffy pubic hair and puffy pudenda closing around his hardened shaft. He could still see her eyes squint as she grinned, settling astride him, taking him into her silky warmth. He could smell her soap. He could see the tiny freckles on her chest. He could hear her breathing, tiny gasps, in tempo with the clutching of her heated passage as she fell forward, pressing her upturned nipples against his chest.
Chester felt himself getting hard again and fell to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his still-damp penis, stroking slowly. And the memory continued to unreel and he moved his hand faster and he came, softly, unexpectedly, an amazing second time, almost as if he’d been interrupted the first time.
* * * *
She didn’t come back the next day. Chester couldn’t help himself and kept looking up from the children’s faces, scanning the line, looking for a face he didn’t want see, a body that still lived in his imagination. She wasn’t there. He’d failed the test; he wasn’t her real Santa. She was off somewhere, sitting on some other man’s lap.
Chester didn’t think it was a good idea to linger at the mall after finishing his shift in the Santa chair, because it confused the little kids. Why would Santa be shopping in the drug store? Couldn’t his elves make him anything he needed? And it wouldn’t do to take off part of the outfit and try to get by. There was no way he could pretend to not be Santa. So Chester usually went home when he finished his shift, sneaking out the back of the mall to his car.
But need is need. Chester was out of toilet paper. He walked quickly to the back of the drug store, found the brand he needed and headed for the checkout.
And there she was, waiting, smiling, hands poised over the cash register. The smock all store employees wore hid her pillow-breasts and disguised the flare of her hips, but somehow Chester’s body knew and reacted again. But there were wide-eyed children there. Can’t get out of character. “Ho-ho-ho,” Chester boomed. “Bonnie! It’s nice to see you again!”
But then Chester saw the little nameplate over her left breast. It said “Brenda”. Huh? Brenda? Hadn’t she said her name was Bonnie?
She was grinning, holding out her hand. “Did you mean to say Brenda?” she asked. There were little lines by her eyes, flickers of gray in her red hair. She wasn’t young at all. She wasn’t Bonnie. Was she Bonnie’s mother? Chester fumbled with his wallet, spilled out some bills.
“Thank you Santa!” she said, handing him his change. “Have a nice day and please come back!” With that she was on to the next customer.
So. That made it all pretty clear, didn’t it? Here he was, a middle-aged man, getting crazy thoughts, thinking he’s gotten the attention of a girl half his age, getting so addled he confuses her with another woman, and all along he probably meant nothing to her. She had probably sat on his lap on a dare, egged on by a boyfriend.
What a silly man you are, Chester King.
* * * *
She smiled up at him from the pillow, her head framed by the fluff of her gray-tinged red hair. The tiny wrinkles by her eyes flickered. Chester lowered his hips a fraction and the tip of his cock found a small warm spot, a spot he knew was moist, waiting, ready to open for him. He pressed, easing into her heat, and watched the corners of her mouth turn up in a little smile. He lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers and her tongue flickered out to meet him. He could feel her tight nipples against his chest and began moving slowly, easing in and out of exquisite warmth, watching this woman beneath him, feeling the pressure of her thighs against his flanks, her heels hooking his buttocks, her breasts brushing his chest, and then the moment was there, he heard himself grunt, and… He was awake. And there was another little mess in his pajamas to clean up, and another dream-memory to haunt him.
* * * *
She came back the next afternoon. She was there in line, the same breasts, the same hips, the same hair—and that teasing smile. She waited patiently, oblivious to the acrimonious glares of the moms and the leering peering of the dads.
By the time she hit his lap he was hard again. And she had to know it. She landed right on top of his royal stiffness. The designer label on her hip was in danger of besmirchment by a very un-Santa-like reflex.
“Santa, you almost blew my cover!” she whispered.
Chester had no words. Brenda or Bonnie? They were two different women. There were no lines of age by this person’s eyes, nor were there any traces of gray in her hair. There was at least a twenty-year age difference. “I—Who are you?” he stammered.
“Bonnie! I told you! I’m looking for the real Santa. I think you’re my guy!”
“But, at the drug store…”
“Shh. That’s when I was being Brenda. You shouldn’t call me Bonnie when I’m pretending to be Brenda. You are the guy, aren’t you? You’re Santa, aren’t you?” Her hand stole down, along his padded stomach, falling lightly on his tightly packed crotch. “I think it’s you, Santa,” she whispered, giving him a little squeeze. “By-eeee!”
And off she went, leaving behind a thoroughly bewildered man who almost cringed when the next kid headed his direction.
Chester had to get to the bottom of this. Who was this person? What was she up to? It had to be some kind of trick. Unfortunately, he had the last shift, and worked until the mall closed, so he didn’t get a chance to go down to the drug store to see if she was still there, pretending to be Brenda again.
But she was there, still pretending to be Bonnie, standing beside Chester’s car when he left the mall. He almost wanted to scold her a little for the way she slouched against his car, hips thrust out making bony angles, breasts folding down a little toward her stomach.
The parking lot was well-lit and Chester could see lots of things. He could see her alert nipples, the same size and shape as the ones he’d dreamt of between his lips last night. He could see red-painted toes and remembered that her feet had been cold at first.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “What’s going on here?”
“Ready to go?” she replied.
“Go where?”
“It’s time to go home, Santa. Home. Vacation’s over.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Look at this.” She said, lifting her hair, revealing her ear. There was a tiny gold stud in it, and there was a point, a thickening of cartilage at the top, just a hint. And when she turned to face him again the gray was back, the lines were beside her eyes again. She was Brenda. She slipped her arms around him. “I’ve missed you. We’ve missed you.”
“What has happened? What’s going on here? Who are you?”
“Who are you, mister?” She grinned up at him, nudging his chin with her nose as her hand found and cupped his crotch. “What’s your real name?” She squeezed and he felt himself beginning to harden into her hand.
“Chester King.”
She nudged his chin again. “Presto bingo,” she whispered, still squeezing. “Now, how’s that again?”
“Chester Ki—Omigod. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
“You were so cute, the way you stomped out of the workshop. ‘Fed up!’ you shouted. ‘Need a break!’ you said. We almost didn’t have a chance to cast the spell, to turn you into a human. And then you had to wander off to Texas. It took us forever to find you! Do you realize how many laps I had to sit on? Those mothers are a scary lot, aren’t they? And some of those Santas! Yuck! But never mind about that. We’ve found you. Are you ready to get back to work? The girls and I need you.”
“Ah yes, the girls. How are the girls?”
Brenda slipped her hand inside Santa’s trousers and squeezed a little more. “They’ve missed you, Santa. We’ve all missed you. We all need you back. The elves try to help, but they’re… Shall we say lacking? Remember, they’re not anatomically correct. You insisted.” Her fingers began moving slyly, slowly.
Santa almost groaned. “By the way, my dear, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you could be ‘Bonnie’ a tad more often. She’s a cutie.”
Bonnie grinned up at him and squeezed again.
© 2002 Sidney Durham. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.